She Knows Everything
by yolo69
Summary: "I'm sorry for not saying all of the things that I should have said."


"I'm sorry for not saying all of the things that I should have said." Post Secret 2010

Her heel digs into the small of his back and her nails bite shallowly into his shoulder, teeth tearing into her lips as his hands grab her hip, pulling her forward while she moves to meet him. Her hand slides down between them to rest against her clit, keeping it still and letting the movements of her body push her finger harder against her. He bends down and grazes his teeth against her jaw, moving his head back against the fingers of her free hand that have tangled in his hair.

"Fuck," he breathes it into her neck, feeling her arc against him. Her knees tighten against him, pushing harder toward him. His name falls from her lips again as she comes, his teeth closing around the skin where her shoulder meets her neck. Hands splay against her sides, holding and squeezing in that moment where control is lost and he comes, looking for any proof at all that she's real, that's she's there, and it isn't some fucked up, masochistic dream.  
He feels her breath against his shoulder and decides that, just for that moment, she's not his imagination. And that sort of hurts worse.  
He rolls away from her, arm thrown over his eyes as he gasps for air.  
She glances over at him and it all rushes back; three years' worth of memories and shit fall over her and she sits up, sliding off the bed and slinking over to where her bra and panties lie, discarded and forgotten.  
"What the fuck," he groans, looking up at her. He's propped up on his forearm, watching her legs bend and straighten as she dresses herself. He's pretty sure that watching her redress is more intimate than watching her strip down. "Again? Seriously?"  
She smiles sadly. "Yeah, D. That's the way it goes." She can't look back at him or she'll crawl back into bed with him. And she cannot do that.  
He falls back against the pillows angrily.  
"This is shit, Case."  
"Will you watch your mouth?" she scoffs, sliding into her dress.  
"Please don't do this again." He looks up at her, eyes strikingly dark. "Casey. Seriously."  
"No. Knock it off, because it's not happening."  
She toes on her heels and grabs her bag. "Send my invitation to the house," she murmurs. "Assume I respectfully decline. If she asks, tell her that I can't watch her make this mistake."  
"Her, or me?" he says sharply.  
She grins. "It's not always about you, Derek. You've made your choice. I can't stop you. But you should probably tell her that she's not the only one keeping your bed warm."  
"Why, so you can keep fucking me without feeling bad?"  
"Oh, trust me. You'll always make me sick," she laughs. "It's part of the appeal."  
"Fuck you."  
She opens the door and doesn't bother looking back at him.  
"Bye, Der."  
Everything he wanted to say hits him as the door slams closed.  
His phone rings and the Call ID lights up like an accusation.  
"Hey, baby," he sighs, and he realises he's the worst fucking person ever.

-  
"You're serious about this?" she laughs. She's so, so drunk that the idea isn't half crazy and she's considering more than a little bit.  
"Why the fuck not?" he says. His smile is bright and he's just as trashed.  
Her lips pull up in a one sided smile as she steps out of her shoes.  
"I'll race you," she yells, halfway up the first flight of stairs, stumbling blindly up the dim staircase and turning the corner to the next before he grabs her shoes and follows her.  
When he gets to the sixth floor, she's standing by his apartment laughing to herself loudly, bent over and holding her stomach. She glances up at him and sees dark, longing, alcohol clouded eyes. He backs her up against the door.  
"Derek," she murmurs, placing a hand on his chest and tilting her head back against the heavy wood behind her.  
He steps as close to her as he can, knees bent so height matters less.  
"Hey," he whispers, hands sliding down to her hips.  
"Hi," she mouths back before wrapping her arms around his neck and feeling him kiss her.  
He's warm against her though his dress shirt and jeans and the hand on her hip slides to her ass, pulling her up and against him.  
She's never been comfortable with kissing like this, always feeling inadequate and innocent, and she's not sure if it's the alcohol or the man making her confident to a point of destruction.  
Her leg slides about his waist and she moans quietly as he pulls her up and around him.  
"Key," he mutters, reaching into his back pocket carefully and fumbling around to fit it in the lock. It slides over, and he backs her inside, and there's no thought in her mind about how wrong wrong WRONG it all is as her dress flies over her head and falls against the floor, forgotten.

The invitation comes two weeks later, a cream envelope encasing a beautiful silver and gold accented letter that proclaimed, "Claire and Jonathan Lawrence request the honour of your presence while their beautiful, lively, work of art daughter marries the piece of shit man you've been sleeping with behind her back," or something like that. The small notecard with the "No, I will not be attending this joke of a wedding" option on it is left in the envelope as she stares at the invite. It's her scarlet letter, burning into her conscious and making her want to laugh and cry, because Marisa is so dumb to not see what's going on right in front of her, but Casey is the Other Woman, and she was simply not brought up that way. She felt sick, at the very least.

The sound of high heels clicking against hard floors has always been a noise he has found very, _very_ sexy. It was elegant and brisk and had that air of mystery to it until you found the woman whose shoes produced the noise, and if you were lucky, she was just as lovely as the noise and the air that followed it.  
When he met Marisa, she was almost taller than he was in some designer shoes that made the darkest noise he'd ever heard. She was incredible, until she opened her mouth. But, she wanted everything he did: picket fence, 2.5 kids, and no dog. It wasn't hard to make her happy, and she was a knockout in bed, which really just upped her property value that much more. She was simple. Derek liked simple.

She started dropping hints about engagement during their fifth month of dating. She stopped once in the mall and pointed out an intricate ring she decided was the one she wanted. He'd always kind of liked the idea of his grandmother's ring, but couldn't argue with her wanting her own, so he made it happen. Simple. He liked simple.

Her hair is wet and sticking to her almost uncomfortably, water sweeping away sweat and emotions they both refuse to let out.

This keeps fucking happening and neither really knows why, so they just keep going on and pretending like it isn't a weekly ritual.

He's on his knees in front of her, water pouring down his back and she's begging him not to stop, "There, right _there!_" He obliges, moving his tongue against her where she needs it, and only pulling back when she gets _too _into it, because he's still him and she's still her and she just can't win against him. She knows exactly what he's playing at, so she hauls him up, and it's her turn for relentless teasing. As much as she likes seeing him bent down before her, she knows it's nothing compared to the head rush he gets when he sees pristine little Casey McDonald in front of him, wrapping her mouth around his cock. He admitted once that it was one of the few things that actually had the power to leave him speechless. She's so beautiful, and he's such a fucking distraction from reality. She is a cheating, lying, backstabbing b-word and the second his hands are on her, she forgets everything about it.

He fucks her, hard and poignantly, willing her to understand exactly what the hell she's turned him into. She leaves sore and longing for more after their typical, "please don't leave again" conversation that never really ends and rolls over into the next. The only answer is the door slamming behind her, and the absence of her clothing while her smell still lingers. He feels sick every time.

'She has two weeks to come to terms with the fact that she's very nearly someone's mistress, and that she hasn't ever had a real connection with anyone outside of the man marrying the bimbo. She knows Marisa is beautiful – she's not a moron, and she's not blind. But she also knows how Not Enough she is for him. She's airy and light and bubbly and no challenge whatsoever. There's no passion and there's no excitement, except for that rush of shock when he finds out either way if her boobs and ass are real or not. She hates being catty. He's reduced her to catty.

She dials his number twice before she actually hits the green button so it goes through. He answers on the fourth ring, sounded exhausted.

"Late night?" she snarks, and instantly feels bad.

"Good joke," he replies, awkwardly.

She forgets her entire reason for calling and just listens to him breathe on the other end, because she realises she's never really done that before. Dozens of secrets hang between them, and they both know that somewhere deep down, the other knows everything they can't bring themselves to voice.

"Still marrying her?" she asks finally, hoping for a surprise.

"Yeah."

Casey McDonald knows everything.


End file.
